


How Dare You Speak of Grace

by callmejude



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Church Sex, Exhibitionism, Familial Strain, M/M, Pre-Series, Religion Kink, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, literal sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 23:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12518960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: Theon sneaks Jon into Catelyn's sept when the Starks are busy





	How Dare You Speak of Grace

The Starks are feasting with a highborn lord in the Great Hall tonight, and Jon and Theon were given quick plates in the kitchens and told to stay away for the night. Jon is rarely invited when high lords come to Winterfell, but it’s not as common for Theon to be waved away as well. The last time was when Lord Jason Mallister came to feast at Winterfell. Jon had only been a boy then, about ten, and had made the mistake of asking Theon why he was locked out as well. Theon had only glared at him sourly and shoved him in the snow. Jon doesn’t ask who the lord is this time, or why Theon has also been shunned. It doesn’t matter. As annoying as Theon can be, it feels better to have company when the Stark family is occupied without him.

Still, Jon’s not quite sure what they’re doing, here in Lady Catelyn’s sept. He’s never even been inside it before, but he feels an instant uncomfortable chill as he enters the doors behind Theon. The two of them are never explicitly invited to the sept. The trueborn Stark children are raised under both the new gods as well as the old, but Jon is not Catelyn’s son. She has never explicitly banned him from her sept, but he knows better than to think he’s welcome.

He’s not sure why he let Theon convince him to come in here at all. It feels like they’re sneaking. He hates admitting that Theon’s charming smile has any of the power Theon claims it does, but regardless, he always manages to trick Jon into these things when Robb isn’t around to talk him out of it — or as it quite often happens, fall for it first.

“You don’t believe in these,” Jon mutters idly, looking along each of the walls, at the enormous, almost grotesque figures etched into each grey stone slab that makes the room. The stern face of the Crone glares at him over her lantern as if she can see straight through him, each of her wrinkles carved into the wall with such detail Jon can count them from where he stands. Their size is double what a grown man would be, daunting as they look down at the center of the room. Jon can’t imagine why anyone would want to pray to these. “Why are you so keen to be here?”

“I’m not,” Theon says, leaning onto the carved naked Maiden with an infuriating sort of ease. “I just like being here when the Starks are not.” 

Jon frowns at that, and Theon rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, come now. No need to be the lordly bastard when they aren’t here. You get tired of them too, I’ve seen it. It’s why I brought you along.”

Jon can’t remember him ever speaking ill of the Starks before. He knows Theon is a ward, forced to be Lord Stark’s squire, but he usually seems content enough here in Winterfell. It’s unsettling to hear him say his father’s name with such bitterness in his voice. 

“I don’t like being here,” Jon admits when Theon looks at him expectantly. “It’s cold.”

“Would it be warmer to sit outside in the snow?” Theon asks with a smirk.

“That’s not what I meant.”

It’s always strange, being alone with Theon. Jon tends to make sure it doesn’t happen often. Theon is vulgar, always talking of whores he’s taken in various brothels, and he only ever seems to find it funny that Jon sees his stories as distasteful. But he isn’t speaking of whores now. Jon moves to look at the Father, his face angry as it peers down at Jon. It looks nothing like his own father, but Jon still flinches from his unblinking stare.

“You don’t hate the Starks,” Jon says finally. “I know you don’t.”

“I never said I hated them,” Theon answers, defensive. He pulls a thin silver blade from his belt and starts to pick at the grooves that make the Maiden’s dainty hands that sit just over her legs. “I just get tired, is all. Don’t you?”

Jon won’t admit to that, even if it is obvious. “So why bring me here?”

Theon looks over his shoulder and grins. “Because you’re angry with Lady Catelyn.”

It’s not an answer that makes sense. Jon tilts his head, and Theon waves his knife with a sigh. “It doesn’t make you the least bit giddy, knowing she’d turn purple if she knew you were in here?”

“Why would that make me giddy?” Jon asks. “It only makes me nervous.”

Theon rolls his eyes. “Gods, you’re so pitiful sometimes.” He goes back to picking at the grooves in the Maiden. “I don’t like the way she talks to _me_ sometimes,” he mutters. “I can’t imagine you don’t begrudge the way she treats you.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He knows the Stark children notice on occasion, the way Lady Catelyn regards Jon with such contempt, but he’s usually able to wave it off as her being in poor spirits, insisting she’s often quite kind to him. He hadn’t expected Theon to been keen enough to notice at all, the way she is with him. Theon rarely seems to notice anything that doesn’t directly involve himself. 

“You’re a lord’s son,” Jon offers finally. “I’m just a bastard.”

“That’s hardly your fault,” Theon answers.

It takes Jon off-guard. He can’t recall another time Theon has ever said something so compassionate to him. He clicks his tongue against his teeth, trying to find a response, but he can’t come up with one. Theon doesn’t notice, scratching at the carving in front of him with undeserved focus. Worried he may be defacing the Maiden, Jon clears the distance between them with some hesitance, unsure if Theon even wants him to be so close.

Theon is merely carving out the dirt caked into the Maiden’s long, graceful hands. His work is delicate, careful not to leave the slightest scratch onto the stone. 

Jon watches him a moment before asking, “Don’t the servants do that?” 

“Haven’t for some time, apparently,” Theon says with a shrug. He’s not looking at Jon at all. “You shouldn’t let her get to you that way.”

It’s not like Theon to speak to Jon this way, as if he’s an equal. Instinctively, Jon looks over his shoulder, expecting to see Robb or someone he cares for more coming their way. “I — I don’t,” Jon answers finally.

Theon scoffs. “I hear you crying. At night, after feasts like this one. You weep louder than Sansa.”

It’s jarring to hear, and Jon can’t formulate a response. He stares blankly at Theon as he chips away the last bit of filth from the Maiden’s fingers. 

Finally, he meets Jon’s eyes. “My room’s just beside yours,” Theon reminds him. “I walk past your door often enough.”

Jon feels his face burning. It’s as if Theon has bared him as naked as the Maiden gazing down at them. He opens his mouth, but his voice is trapped behind a humiliating lump in his throat. He snaps his jaw shut, swallowing.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Theon insists after Jon has been quiet for too long. Jon meets his eyes curiously. Despite the sincerity in Theon’s voice, he’s still grinning as he always does. “You asked why I brought you here,” he says, slipping his knife back into its sheath. “You’re always so sullen, I thought this might raise your spirits.”

“I don’t see how you possibly thought that,” Jon says sourly.

Theon waves his arm, gesturing at the sept. “Tell Lady Catelyn’s gods how awful she is.”

“She’s a good woman,” Jon insists. Theon frowns.

“She’s a good mother,” he corrects pointedly, “But she is not yours.”

Theon steps into Jon’s space, searching his face for something. Jon’s not sure if he finds it, but he can’t imagine that he doesn’t. He feels transparent under Theon’s bright eyes.

“She’s —”

“You don’t have to defend her when no one else is around, Snow,” Theon interrupts brisquely, creeping closer. “I don’t hate her, I agree she’s a good woman. But not to you. Never to you. You don’t have to pretend such things.”

“She allows me —”

“Your lord father allows you,” Theon interrupts. “All she allows you is misery.”

“Quit it,” Jon whispers, feeling trapped. “What good is it to you, if I hate her?”

Theon has gotten incredibly close to Jon’s face, grin like a shadowcat. “You _do_ hate her?”

Jon feels traitorous tears in his eyes. “Are you — going to tell them, then? Is that why you want to know? Perhaps get them to send me away, off to the Wall, so that you don’t have to deal with me. So that none of you do. Is that what you want?”

Theon laughs. “Is that all you think of me? A rat for the Starks?”

Sputtering, Jon takes a step back, but his heel scrapes against the wall. “Why else would you possibly —”

“Just knowing the noble and good Jon Snow feels hate in his heart is good enough,” Theon says with a chuckle. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“I hate you, too,” Jon says petulantly, but Theon only laughs again.

“If that were true, I could’ve never gotten you to come here,” he says cheerfully. Jon aggressively wipes the tears from his eyes. “I think you may like me more than you realize, Snow.”

Jon scoffs, but embarrassment turns his stomach to water. He tries to put more space between him and Theon, but he’s backed flat against the Maiden. 

“Doubtful,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the carving.

“No it isn’t,” Theon says in a low voice. “I’m beginning to think you’d like to do more than just curse Lady Catelyn in here, wouldn’t you?” Jon frowns, afraid to ask what that means. Theon only finds his silence funny. “Gods, do you _ever_ smile?”

“Not at you,” Jon teases snappishly. 

Theon’s eyes glitter at the jape. Before Jon can react, he leans forward and takes Jon’s mouth in his own. His hands jump up to frame Jon’s face, pulling him into the kiss with a force that makes Jon’s stomach flip. It’s a moment too long before Jon has the presence of mind to pull away.

“What’re you _doing?_ ” His voice comes out breathless, and Jon feels shame bloom red at the back of his neck. 

Theon seems to smell it on him, his smile only flashing wider. “You want it, don’t you?”

Jon glares at him. Words stick in his throat. Theon tilts his head, and steps closer. “I’ve seen the way you watch me, in the springs. The way you turn red when I talk about Ros or Kyra, or any of the whores in the winter town.”

“I don’t,” Jon insists too quickly.

“Are you jealous? Think I’ll only do it for the girls, is that it?”

“I know you do it with boys, too.” Jon shoots back. “I’ve seen you with Robb, in the wolfswood.”

“Have you?” Theon whispers, eyes bright. “You must’ve been quiet, he throws me off at the sound of a snapping twig a mile away.”

The implication that Robb has done such things more than once is more surprising than the fact that Theon isn’t ashamed of being caught, but the realization of both in the same instant staggers Jon enough that he forgets his voice for a moment.

“I didn’t _watch,_ ” Jon says at last, but his words cracks over the lie, and Theon only chuckles. His breath is sweet against Jon’s neck.

“Of course not,” he says lightly, disbelieving. “Only thought of it later, didn’t you? Eating dinner across from us that night. Or maybe even later, only after everyone else had gone to bed.”

Face burning, Jon shoves him. Theon cackles. 

“There’s no need to be jealous, Snow.” His voice is so quiet, taunting. It makes Jon’s pulse quicken. “You’re plenty pretty, yourself.”

“Shut up,” Jon snaps, flustered. 

He hasn’t tried to leave, so Theon only moves back into his space. He’s somehow managed to back Jon against the wall again. Jon pushes his hand flat behind him and can feel the swooped carving of the Maiden’s wide hips. Theon is eyeing him curiously. 

“When you thought of it later,” he asks, “Was I with you, instead?”

Jon jerks back from him, but he can’t get far enough. The air is so thick that it feels like a presence, as if the gods are dragging themselves out of the rocks in which they’re carved to creep closer to them. Theon presses Jon into the stone. 

“You’re not like Robb though, are you?” His mouth finds Jon’s ear. It’s warm and wet and Jon can’t catch his breath. “You put me in his place, didn’t you? You were the one with your hands and knees in the dirt.”

Hair prickles at the back of Jon’s neck. His breath hitches in his throat, feeling caught. He tries not to think about it, but he does. Alone in his quarters, when everyone else is asleep. Women and men both, he seems to like either about the same. He’d thought of Theon and Robb that night, after spying them in the wolfswood. It had felt sick. He hadn’t wanted to, but still, Theon knows. As if reading his mind, Theon hums contemplatively against his ear. It sends a chill down Jon’s spine, and he hears the laugh in Theon’s voice when he speaks again. 

“I can help you,” His hands snake around Jon’s hips. “You don’t have to worry so much. You’ll father no bastards with me, Snow.”

Blood roiling in his veins, Jon shoves him again. This time Theon takes his wrists and pin them against the wall. Jon’s breath catches in his chest again. 

“Perhaps I should take you right here under the Maiden,” Theon says with a grin, “Seems only right, doesn’t it? You being one and all.”

“Get off me,” bursts from Jon’s mouth, and Theon complies easily. 

He’s still smiling like he knows something Jon doesn’t, which only infuriates him further. Jon shoves past him, stumbling a little from sudden lightheadedness as he tries to storm away.

“Snow, wait,” Theon calls gently. He still sounds as if he’s trying not to laugh, but Jon turns. Theon is right on his heels, taking Jon’s wrist before he can get to the door of the sept. “I’m sorry. That was too cruel.”

It doesn’t feel quite like an apology, but Theon’s touch still burns in a way that makes Jon’s head spin. He doesn’t want to pull away.

Theon must know, the way he smiles, the way his grip tightens on Jon’s arm. “I can be sweet for you, if that’s what you like.”

“You? Kind?” Jon manages through clenched teeth. He shakes away the memory of their earlier conversation. “It’d be far less trouble for you to take a mount to winter town and find yourself a girl as you usually do.”

“Come now, Snow,” Theon says with a chuckle. He shifts into Jon’s space, and they stumble into the closest wall. “Don’t pretend you haven’t seen — me looking at you, too.”

Breath shallow, Jon shakes his head. “You what?”

“Why do you think — why do you think I know the way you watch me?”

Jon’s pulse is thrumming in his throat. “I — you watch me?”

Without answering, Theon nips Jon’s throat. Jon’s breath hitches, and Theon bites down harder. “I can help you,” he whispers into Jon’s skin, his voice gentle. “I _want_ to help you.”

For the first time, Jon feels Theon’s fingers slide over the front of Jon’s pants. Jon gasps, and his knees buckle. Theon pins him back against the wall, and a humiliating whimper falls from Jon’s mouth.

“C’mon, Snow,” Theon purrs against his ear. “What excuse do you have?”

“I — can’t stand you,” Jon forces through clenched teeth, feeling Theon’s fingers busy at the laces of his pants.

With a noncommittal hum, Theon mutters, “I’m not asking to court you, Snow.”

“But I —”

“Hate me, I know.” Jon shivers as Theon’s fingers find his cock. “But you want me anyway, don’t you?”

Nothing comes out of Jon’s mouth, even as he works his jaw. Theon’s fingers are warm, not entirely unlike his own, but they move with a level of skill that Jon doesn’t possess. 

Theon presses his mouth to Jon’s ear. “Don’t you?”

Humiliated, Jon nods. 

Theon takes his wrist with his free hand and presses it against the wall, over Jon’s head. 

“Would you tell me?” Theon asks, voice heavy, “What you saw, in the wolfswood? What — what did you see?”

Jon finds the mind to look at him. Theon’s eyes are on fire, grin so wide it barely looks human. It takes everything Jon has to understand what Theon is asking.

“In — in the woods?”

“Right,” Theon answers. “Tell me. Was I wearing my pants?”

Jon blinks. “I — no?”

Theon smirks. “Good,” he says pulling his hand off of Jon. “Take them off, then.”

Jon blushes, sputtering a little at the sudden lack of touch. “I — I don’t…”

“Come on,” Theon interrupts. “It’s actually rather warm in here, you’ll be alright.” He gives the waist of his pants a teasing little tug. “I’ll keep you good and warm, Snow. You won’t even notice.” 

Sure he’s still blushing, Jon shuffles his pants to his ankles. He steps out of them, but only one foot. He stares at his feet for a moment before looking up at Theon. “It’s how yours were.”

Theon’s eyes widen. “Is that so?” he says with a grin. “And what else?” 

Before Jon can answer, Theon brings his hand to his own mouth. Jon flinches as Theon pulls his lips over his fingers. “What’re you doing?”

Snorting, Theon pulls his fingers glistening from his mouth. “Making it better for you, trust me.” When Jon doesn’t have anything to say to that, Theon prods, “Now tell me.”

“It wasn’t like — what you said,” Jon mumbles, shy. Theon presses him back against the wall. “In the dirt like that.”

To Jon’s surprise, Theon’s response is to kiss his neck. His mouth is soft against Jon’s skin, and the air feels close by the time he pulls back far enough to ask curiously, “No?” 

Jon shakes his head. A warm, damp finger presses up against Jon’s entrance, and he yelps. 

“Shh, it’s alright,” Theon purrs against his skin. “Tell me.”

It’s hard to think with Theon’s finger slipping into him. The sensation is hard to place, not quite pleasant. It’s difficult to think past the feeling. “A tree,” he manages, tense, and Theon tisks against his neck.

“Relax,” he says, as if it’s so simple. “I can’t understand you.”

“A tree,” Jon repeats in a heavy breath, “Robb had — had you up against a tree.”

As Theon remembers, a groan pulls from his chest that causes Jon’s eyes to slide shut. “Did you watch us?”

It’s useless to lie now. Theon presses another finger inside him and Jon flinches. It feels different now. It still stings, but in a way that makes Jon lightheaded and warm. “I did.”

Theon presses closer, forcing Jon to widen his legs as Theon slides between them. “How long?”

His fingers crook in a way that make Jon’s knees buckle again, and his answer comes out a helpless little yelp. Theon catches him against his chest, cooing gently in his ear. As Jon struggles to catch his breath, Theon moves his hand again, this time holding Jon steady against the wall. 

“That’s it, I’ve got you,” Theon croons. “Tell me how long.”

Jon shakes his head. It’s hard to remember. “Til — til the end,” he says vaguely. “You’d — been keening like a maiden.”

He expects Theon to get angry at that, but instead he just chuckles. “It actually feels quite good, if you do it right” he says with a wink. “You’ll see.” He watches Jon silently as he works his fingers, and then adds, soft and flippant, “Anyway, your brother likes me to be loud for him. Likes me to whine and beg.”

Jon’s head is swimming. He nods before he really understands what Theon says. Sweat drags down the back of Jon’s neck as the thought sinks in, the image of his brother holding Theon by his hair, ordering him to plead for more as he works his hips. Heat bursts over Jon’s face at the thought of begging Theon Greyjoy for anything. Certainly not this. 

“Are — are you like that?”

Theon squints at him. “Like what?”

“Want — will you want — me to be loud?”

It’s humiliating to ask, and his face burns red as Theon throws his head back to laugh. When he looks at Jon again, he’s still grinning, but his eyes are dark. “I won’t have to ask anything of you, Snow.” His free hand moves to tuck Jon’s hair behind his ear. “You’re too green to deny me.”

Defiant, Jon shakes his head, but even as he does, the words churn in Jon’s blood, and he can imagine Theon’s right. It excites him, despite himself, the thought of Theon turning him into a begging mess without trying. He wants it, even as he feels Theon’s eyes on him. Theon’s hand moves again in that same blindingly pleasurable way, and Jon’s head drops against Theon’s shoulder. A sound leaves his mouth void of language, a shapeless moan. His blood is on fire.

“Keep talking,” Theon whispers against his skin, breath a welcome cool. “I want to know what you saw.”

The words fall from Jon’s mouth without the shame he’d had before. It feels too good to be ashamed any longer. “You had your legs — around him,” he pants. “Hold — holding onto the tree behind —” he flings his hand behind his head to claw at the wall in an attempt to mime it. His nails scrape against the stone, and a chill rolls down his spine. His eyes find the image of the Crone facing them with her lantern, and it sends his head reeling. They’re not in the woods. They’re not even in the castle. They’re in the sept, and Theon’s cock is hard against his thigh and Jon feels a bolt of pleasurable shame fire through himself. Theon’s fingers are moving faster now, jolting the pleasure out of him, and Jon loses his words, keening against Theon’s throat.

“Is that what you want, Snow?”

His voice is tender, and Jon’s heart is pounding in his ears. “Y — _yes._ ”

Theon’s hand slides out of him so fast that Jon shouts, both his hands flying out to latch hard into Theon’s hair.

“You’re alright,” Theon purrs, spitting into his hand. Jon shakes his head. “Aye, you are. Just hold onto me.”

Jon clenches his fists into Theon’s hair, feeling his blood run hot from the way it makes Theon’s eyes roll back. It takes him a moment to hoist Jon up from his thighs. “Hold — hold tight.” 

He presses Jon hard against the wall so that he can cup Jon’s face. “It’ll — Snow, look at me. It’ll hurt, but I’ll be careful. It’ll feel good in the end, I promise. Do you hear me?”

Why is he being so kind? Jon nods, because he thinks he’s supposed to, and pulls Theon to his mouth by his hair. The kiss is desperate and messy, and Jon thinks he hears Theon laugh against his mouth. He’s pressed so firm and tight against the wall he can feel Theon’s heartbeat hammering against his own chest through his clothes. His hands claw at Theon’s neck, and Theon drops the hold he has on Jon’s face. He must make a sound, some sort of whine, because Theon presses his forehead to Jon’s.

“You’re alright,” he says again. He sounds breathless this time, and his eyes are nearly black. “Just hold tight.”

Tightening his legs around Theon’s waist, Jon nods. Theon lets out a soft, long breath against Jon’s face, and then starts to push inside. 

Pain burns all the way up his spine to Jon’s skull, and he cries out, vision going white. He hears Theon shushing him as if from the end of a tunnel, but his mouth is pressed against Jon’s ear when he speaks. 

“I’ve got you, it’s alright, just breathe.”

“Can’t,” Jon whimpers, but Theon’s fingers snake around Jon’s nape, thumb stroking his cheek.

“You can,” he says softly, “Open your eyes for me, Snow.”

It takes several tries to blink the blindness from his eyes, Theon’s face so close he can barely see anything else. 

“There you are,” Theon says gently. Even his smile has changed, honest and soft. “Now breathe. I won’t — I won’t move until you say.”

Jon gasps, and the pain dissipates, gradually. It subsides into a dull sort of ache. He can see the Warrior over Theon’s shoulder, he can see the carved face of the Father staring down at them, holding onto his scales of justice. He must make a sound, because Theon finds his eyes. 

“Alright, Snow?”

“I’m —” It’s still so hard to speak. He nods instead. The last thing he wants is for Theon to stop. “Yes. Please, I —” realization burns all the way to his scalp, but he can’t stop the plea from falling out of him. “More, please, I want —”

Theon doesn’t seem to notice Jon’s embarrassment. He only nods and starts to move, rolling his hips into Jon. It feels like striking flint against his spine, setting his skin on fire. Jon thinks he says something, but whatever it is doesn’t matter. Theon starts to move in earnest, one hand holding his thigh so tightly it feels as if he may break the skin while the other is knotted in Jon’s hair.

Every inch of him feels like lighting, burning away everything that isn’t Theon’s body against his, isn’t his gasping breath in his ear. His heart feels as if it may burst from his chest. 

“Theon,” falls from Jon’s mouth, a soft, desperate whimper. He’s not sure what he wants, but Theon seems to, pushing harder into Jon’s hips.

Head spinning, Jon’s head falls back against the wall, eyes taking a moment to focus on the face above, staring down at them. The Mother, her arms open with mercy, smiles kindly at them, and Jon feels a sob rip from his throat.

“Jon.” Theon’s voice is kind, and Jon jumps, trying to remember any other time Theon has used his given name. “Look at me,” Theon tells him firmly. “It’s alright.”

His hand reaches for Jon’s cock, left straining between them, and he rolls his fingers gently until Jon’s fingers find his hair again. He wants to say something, but he can’t even breathe. He doesn’t realize until Theon kisses him that tears are rolling down his face, turning the kiss salty on his tongue. Tension coils at the base of his spine, running his blood to boiling, ripping along his veins as if he’s melting in Theon’s hands. He can’t breathe. He’s gone blind. All that matters is the touch of Theon’s skin. It feels as if he’s dying. It’s only another moment before he comes, spilling over Theon’s hand with a shout that pulls him from the kiss, shaking and needy.

“Theon,” he manages finally, his voice tight with tears. “Theon —”

“It’s alright,” Theon whispers, his own voice tense. “Gods, just —” He loses track of what he’s saying and cries out, voice high and raw against Jon’s cheek as he comes inside him. Jon’s never felt anything like it, heat bleeding over him from the inside. The breath wrests from his lungs.

Jon’s eyes fall shut as his thoughts fade grey. “Gods —”

Theon is panting too hard to speak. For a time that feels like hours, they stand together in silence, chests heaving, breath warming each other’s skin. 

Finally, Theon grunts, “I’m — going to set you down now.”

Jon hadn’t realized his legs were still wrapped tight around Theon’s middle, one hand still pinned to the wall behind him. He nods, but when Theon sets his feet to the floor, Jon’s knees crumple under the sudden weight.

“Drowned fuck,” Theon grumbles, knees hitting the stone floor to help Jon sit against the wall. “Are you alright?”

Jon nods, feeling like a child. Theon laughs, and Jon scowls, sure it’s at his expense. 

“Thought I may have broken you,” Theon chuckles. “Would’ve been a hard one to explain.”

The gravity of the situation is starting to weigh on Jon’s shoulders. He looks back up at the sweet face of the Mother and frowns.

“Don’t blame me for that,” Theon says with a smirk. “I tried to take you under the Maiden. Thought maybe it was your idea, hating Lady Catelyn as you do.”

Jon doesn’t answer, and Theon’s smile fades. 

“You’re alright?”

“Does it matter?”

Theon frowns. “I — of course it matters,” he says defensively. “It’s no fun if you didn’t like it.”

For some reason, it makes Jon want to cry again. It must show in his face, because Theon sits up like the crack of a whip and presses a hand to the side of Jon’s face. 

“Don’t — don’t cry.” It’s not teasing or flippant. The tone in his voice is one Jon hasn’t heard from him before, and it takes Jon a moment to realize he’s worried. “I didn’t — I’m sorry.”

“Stop it,” Jon snaps, hand dragging over his eyes. “Stop mocking me.”

“I’m not,” Theon says quietly, but he doesn’t say anything else. 

When Jon glares at him, he’s looking at his hands. Silence is filling the room like water by the time Theon finally sits up to tuck himself away and tie the laces of his pants shut. Jon wants to cover up as well, but he’d have to stand to put his pants back on, and he doesn’t trust himself to have the strength yet.

As if reading his mind, Theon gestures at him and asks, “Do you want help?”

Pouting, Jon nods.

Theon is silent as he helps Jon stand, and helping him get his foot into the dropped leg of his pants. As he pulls them up around his waist, he asks quietly, “Did you like it?”

Furious, Jon pushes at him, taking care of the laces himself. Theon watches him, eyes wide, and when he tries to stomp past him, Theon grabs his arm.

“Jon,” he says tensely, and Jon finally realizes he’s not being teased. “Did — was it good?”

The embarrassment is back now, causing the words to catch in his throat too hard to speak. Shy and humiliated, he nods. Theon lets out a breath that seems to start at his navel, and his smile is back. That infuriatingly charming smile.

“Good,” he says with more honesty than Jon is expecting. 

He hasn’t let go of Jon’s arm, but the hold is comforting. His thumb strokes along the forearm of Jon’s shirt, soft and calming. Jon jumps when Theon leans forward to kiss him again, but melts into it when Theon cups the back of his head.

“I can take you in the wolfswood, next time,” he breathes against Jon’s mouth, and Jon feels his heart leap into his throat. “Show you all the other things I’ve done in there — or maybe something new, if you’d like.”

“Why?” Jon asks before he can stop himself. He pulls back from Theon’s kiss and looks at him curiously. “Why would you — do that for me? You hate me.”

Theon laughs. “No I don’t,” he says casually, tucking hair back behind Jon’s ear. “You’ve got us mixed up, Snow. I’ve never even claimed to hate you.”

Jon stares at him. Theon looks down at himself, brushing invisible dust from his leather doublet. 

“We should start back,” he says without inflection. “We’ll want to make it to our rooms before the Starks and their company see us roaming the same halls.”

Hazy, Jon nods. When he doesn’t say anything, Theon looks at him. “It’s alright,” he says with a grin. He leans forward and kisses Jon again, light and too quick for Jon to kiss back. “Secret’s safe with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Broken Crown" by Mumford and Sons


End file.
